


A Partridge in a Peartree

by archea2



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Baking, Birds, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Fluff, Friendship, Give Team Big Guys some love, Hazel and Luther are BFFs, Humor, Second Chances, Sibling Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21971083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: A 12 Days of Christmas series featuring these bird lovers and lovers tout court, Hazel and Agnes, and their new bond with the Hargreeves. Dedicated to the nonnies who cheered the first installments on a certain anon meme and agreed with me that Hazel and Luther would make perfect Redemption Pals.
Relationships: Agnes Rofa & The Hargreeves, Allison & Ben & Diego & Number Five | The Boy & Klaus & Luther & Vanya, Allison Hargreeves/Luther Hargreeves, Claire & Klaus Hargreeves, Dolores/Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Hazel & Luther Hargreeves, Hazel & The Hargreeves, Hazel/Agnes Rofa
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. A Partridge in a Peartree

The first time Luther sees him again, there’s a terrified baby girl clinging to Hazel’s beard and a glut of aliens circling them, bent on giving cradle-snatching a new bad rap. Looks like Da... looks like Sir Reginald wasn’t the only one of his kind looking to start a dynasty. 

Luther, putting _whys_ and _hows_ on hold _,_ butts in.

“Better them than me,” Hazel confides to the air, shielding the baby’s eyes when one alien makes a derring-do dash that ends with another splash on the wall.

“What are you doing here?” Luther pants. “Five said you’d gone civilian!”

Alas, this is the moment Diego seizes for his new punchline, “A LASER RAY IS SO YESTERDAY! KNIVES NEVER DIE!” (which, Luther would argue, needs working on). The next minutes are spent three-teaming to fight the good fight, with fair to middling results, until Hazel and Luther shove the baby into Diego’s arms and go for it back to back. 

“You gonna let him take her?” Diego asks later, _sotto_ perfectly audible _voce,_ the scene cleared and the baby happily reacquainting herself with Hazel’s beard.

“Agnes has called child’s services,” Hazel answers instead. He is rocking the little girl, his arms slow and soft-gestured. “She’s waiting outside. We only popped here 'cause I got tubed by mistake. Should have known the Commission would keep ye olde work aliases in this timeline. Agnes says it will be easier to blur tracks if I take her name, which I would, gladly, but - all right, little bird. Go to sleep, and I’ll make sure both of us get to live in the here and now. Coo-oo-ee? Coo-ee?”

“Oh,” Luther says, entranced. 

He is looking at a reformed man. With a featherlight bundle in his arms. Can it be true? Can a king-size sinner grow into a family man? Hazel is staring at the bundle with a face that’s all human, a far cry from his once bestial mask. Luther's eyes meet Diego's fading scowl, and they both look away.

“It’s _coo-loo-lee,_ love. And _caw-caw-caw-koodle-dee-yah_ if you meant the golden plover.” This from Agnes, walking in on Klaus’s arm: Lookouts United. “Oh, listen to her! What a sweet warbler!”

The baby, entirely aware of her audience appeal, goes for a bubbly solo performance. When Klaus pitches in, Diego coughs. 

“You’re still needed, Liberacce!”

“What, to interview the space maccabees? Nah, Ben’s on it. They’ll talk to him, not me, on account of his snaky guts. So.” Klaus claps his hands; rubs them with gusto. “Celebratory donut, anyone?”

“We’re still waiting for child services,” Luther reminds him.

“And an update on the vic’s identity!”

“Bro, you're _so_ hot when you copper up. But it’s fine - we lookouts have come prepared. Agnes?”

“They’re spinach and banana,” Agnes warns. “With matcha glaze. No gluten, vitamin D a-plenty. Tuck right in, er...” 

“Diego,” Diego says, his voice three-quarters muffled. He pats along his left thigh; plucks off a butterfly knife; hands it with a curt bow, so Agnes can slice the muffins. “Pleasure.”

Luther leaves them to it and joins Hazel at the window. The baby is asleep in Hazel’s arms, lulled by the soft ticking of the human heart. Or so Luther wants to think. He nods at Hazel, sidling up closer as they both stare into the December night.

“Creature comforts,” Hazel muses. Behind them, the warm noises carry on. “Guess we deserve them - all creatures great and small.”


	2. Two Turtledoves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel has a request for Luther.

"You want me to _what_?"

Hazel pauses, considering his donut. How did the central hole come to be of paramount importance? Back in the old days, men hollowed stones so each stone could be fitted to a shaft and made a lethal weapon. Hazel knows this because the Time Executives' Training Center came with a museum. Quite impressive, what the Bronze Age achieved silex-wise. So when did one of his peers peer at his work-in-progress, nudge his neighbor on the assembly line, and ask, _Eh, Bruiser. What say we make this edible?_

"Hazel!"

"Apologies," says Hazel, joining word to action and passing Luther the jam. (Post-mission snacks, a happy routine by now. Diego joined them once, only to spend the evening staring at their plates in aghast disbelief. Cramped their snacking style, that.) "Oh yeah. I want you to take orders."

"What? No! The whole point of us being redemption pals -"

"Not that kind of orders." Hazel pats Luther's bulky arm. "I need somebody to marry us, Agnes and I." A pause. "Somebody who won't... judge."

"Oh," says Luther. He is not slow-witted as a rule, but, having never paid attention to the point, it takes some focusing. "People have been judging you?"

"Her," Hazel says. Tone quiet, face somber with a hint of the darkly determined man he used to be, before he learnt to love and let others live. "Agnes. And I won't have it, Luther. If I don't give a duck about her age and she doesn't, why should anybody else?"

"I'm sorry," Luther says earnestly. "It never crossed my mind..."

(It wouldn't. Not with one brother betrothed to a plastic torso lady and the other hitting on a - by now - octogenarian ghost. )

"And that's why we'd rather have you." Hazel ponders some more. "I don't think it entails perpetual chastity, contrary to the Commission oath. Wouldn't want that for you."

"Oh, ah..." And a red-faced Luther nods before he dives right back into his mug.

"I'll return the favor whenever. You know that."

"Hm-mm," Luther tells his mug. (Allison is flying home next week. With Claire. Luther isn’t sure why _that_ is crossing his mind, but makes a mental note to book the family van, now Klaus is back from his drag tour.)

"And Agnes says she can walk down the aisle on her own, thank you very much." Hazel chuckles. "Always has, always will, and don't I love her for it."

"Well, you two can count on me."

"Eh," Hazel says, and chuckles again. "Back when I did a stint in the 1800s… guess what they called a pastor then? A _sky pilot_. You'll do just great, pal." **  
**


	3. Three French Hens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanya plans a double hen party...

Allison, another redemption trainee, told Vanya that the day was not about herself. The day should be all about Agnes, who loves nature. So would Vanya find it unethical if Allison rumored the City's Botanical Garden into loaning their baobab for the party?

Agnes’s own reasoning was more along the lines of Allison-Hargreeves-superstar-probably-expects-gold-painted-swimming-pool-filled-with-she-asses’-milk-oh-dear-will-pasteurized-do.

Vanya put both their minds at rest by rerouting their joint hen night to _La Chocolatière_.

"So much for the British monopoly on tearooms,” Agnes now says. She's well into her third cup. Vanya has given her customary Sencha the slip and gone wild on whipped cream. Allison, still struggling with years of actress-thin routine, has stuck to coffee but agreed to ~~one~~ ~~four~~ ~~seven~~ a number of small macarons. Agnes has said “Anything that’s not round, glazed or deep-fried” and stuck to her word.

“ _Pierre, on va passer aux babas maintenant_.”*

“Baba? That’s… grandmother, right?” And Agnes looks bewildered, until Pierre the Waiter sets a little plate and a vial of fragrant rum before her. The cake on the plate looks like a potato patty - one that went on a bender and came home soused in liquor. “Oh.”

“Yay booze sisters,” Allison tells Vanya. They’ve had champagne with the macarons and a shot of cognac with Agnes's choice of chocolate éclairs. Now, at rum o’clock, Allison feels happily mellowed. “Bless you and your French kink.”

“Not a kink!”

“Sis, you could play _Frère Jacques_ backward when you were eleven. I couldn’t say _rumeur_ to save my life, let alone the Eiffel Tower. Klaus was instructed to coach me on the flight to Paris, only he got bored halfway through and switched to _voolez-voo_. And Claire keeps asking for the story!”

“Grandmothers,” Agnes repeats. “And mothers. Never saw myself as one - but...”

“Same,” says Vanya. They’ve buttered and sugared themselves into confidence hour, which is fine with her. It has taken time to curb Vanya’s Ugly Duckling syndrome and Allison’s _shoot first, answer the press later_ attitude. But they’ve worked on it, each from her end of the equation, with Agnes a welcome variant. Quiet, self-assured Agnes. Who shares traits with both sisters, making it easier for each to address the other's personality by way of hers, fostering a democracy of three.

“Wait and see. It’s a brave new time, this life of ours. Meanwhile, shall _I_ be mother? Again?” And Allison grins, pouring more rum over each plate's baba. (There’s no designated driver: Diego said he would chauffeur them, wait for them and drive them back, the moment Klaus offered to organize the stag do.)

Agnes tips her plate, gathering a spoonful of rum and drinking it straight. Confidence hour it is.

“You know, we stayed with her the whole night. That baby girl. They had to prise her loose from Hazel’s arms - she was crying so hard I thought I could hear her from the car.”

“I know,” Allison says quietly.

“Then we called the next day to inquire, and… they were really targeting orphans, these - things. She has no known family, no known _name_ as of yet. They plucked her from one foster home and now she’s going to another. For the time being.”

“Agnes…”

“The thing is,” Agnes says, and there’s iron under her gentle velvet tones. “I’m not denying that it takes time and strength to raise a child. But you know what’s great when you retire from waitressing? _You get time_. And I’m not grey yet, I’m not weak, and so many men have children after leaving their prime so far behind they no longer share a zip code. Allison, you know what I mean. The wealthy men. The famous men. And nobody bats an eyelash sixteen years later when they're chaperoning their kid at this or that cotillion, and I’not grudging them the joy or pride, but what’s good for the gander should be good for the goose.” A rueful smile. “Or hen. Listen to me, being a Debbie Downer on my wedding eve!”

“You’re not,” Vanya says with her newfound energy. “You’re the most resilient woman I’ve ever met.”

“The nattiest, too,” Allison says. Over the tabletop, her gaze finds and holds Vanya's, a secret _?_ requesting Vanya’s green light before Allison Hargreeves powers up. Vanya’s eyes flash back their _yes_. “Never say never, Agnes Rofa.”

“Oh well,” Agnes says, and raises her forkful of baba to them. “ _A la vie**_ , then, my dears.”

**\-----------------**

*Pierre, we’ll have the rum babas now.

**”To life” (a toast), but also “for life”, as in “friends for life”.


	4. Four Calling Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... while Klaus planned Luther and Hazel's stag do.

“Hargreeves Juniors’ Madhouse, Five speaking.”

“... -”

“At last! What's with the gallivanting, Luther? Where are you even calling from?" 

“...”

“A phone booth. Color me stunned. But _where_?”

“..........................;..................................... -"

“Wait, wait - Luther! Slow down, all right? I’m not mad at you. You’re safe and sound, and I don’t have to sell myself to a traveling circus to cover your bail, so there’s that. Now, if you’d kindly explain the gist of the matter - using one-syllable words, if needs be -”

“.”

“Klaus. Of course it was Klaus."

“...................................................................................................................................................................................................................... - ”

“Yeah, all right, Luther, that’s more gist than I really care for. And you may want to put on some clothes before you head home - or join Allison.”

“............?”

“Oh, she’s gone out. She left word for you to call Vanya if you touched base, so I suggest you do that. And then she asked for Dad’s old address book, don't ask me why. I thought you two wanted a private wedding. Given its, ah, homogamic status.”

* * *

“Um, hello. Is this Vanya? Luther here. Luther Hargreeves.”

“.......!”

“Yeah, sorry. Just got home. Still a bit speech-addled.”

“.......?”

“Honestly and truly, Vanya, you don’t want to know. How was the cocoa splash?”

“.........................................”

“Oh, that sounds nice! Nice and _warm_.”

“.........?”

“Well, er. You remember that scene in _King Kong_ , the one in Central Park? With the frozen river and the lit-up trees? That Klaus says is Hollywood’s immortal tribute to the powers of love and Ikea? Well, he’d, er, borrowed - his verb - Dolores from Five and got her a curly blond wig, and, er. Erm.”

“....!”

“No, no, he let me keep my pants.”

“...!...!!...!!!”

“Oh, that. That’s no big deal, Vanya. No, really. It can dip to minus 280 on the moon, did you know? Anyway, Five says Allison said to call here, so I did - in case she called you first. Any idea where she is?”

“......... -”

“ _Child services_? Jesus, is Claire - no, here she is, thank god. Half a mo, Claire de Lune, I’m talking to your Aunt Vanya. No, not yet. Well, I’m sure she’ll be back soon. She’s, er, I’m just being told that she’s on a Very Important Secret Mission.”

* * *

“Ms Turvey? Allison Hargreeves. I tried to join you earlier, but they told me you were at a fundraising lunch.”

“............................. -”

“Quite so. I used to be a luncheon woman myself. So let's save each other's time and cut to the chase, shall we? I’m a close friend of Agnes Rofa.”

“......”

“Really? Sorry if I sound sceptical, but she and her husband-to-be rescued a baby girl three weeks ago, brought her to you in person, and have applied since multiple times for visitation.”

“.......... -”

“Yes, yes. But unless I’m mistaken, that’s a temporary measure.”

“...................”

“Since the Rofas have repeatedly stated their wish to adopt, wouldn't that solve the prob -"

".......-"

" _I heard a rumor that you heard me to the end_."

" "

"Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Adoption. An old hat to you, isn't it? Because I do recall you being in charge when I still wore a short skirt and long stockings. A young girl whose raising raised enough concerns that even the public channel echoed them. But did you, Ms Turvey?"

" "

"Sorry, didn't catch that. See, I don't recall your services ever sending anyone, man or woman, to interview my father. And yet he must have been known to you. Because you were certainly known to him. Your name features in his address book. _And_ cheque book. A very meticulous man, my father was - a sterling record keeper. Who kept a tally of his every donation."

" "

"Can't say I take much after him. As an actress, I'm more in touch with the spoken word. So quick. So easy to reverberate. Especially in times like ours, so prone to enjoy a touch of scandal."

" "

"Luckily for you, Ms. Turvey, I also believe in second chances. And that they should entail a no-age-limit policy. So here's my proposal to you..."

* * *

"Hullo? Hullo? Yes, this is Agnes Rofa. Who's speaking?"

".............."

"Oooh! Oh, yes, absolutely, we'll be - just a - Hazel! Hazel dearest, rise and shine! Yes, why, of _course_ we know the way. Let me just rehydrate my fiancé, and we'll be on the way before you can say turtledove!"


	5. Five Golden Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five receives five golden rings and shares a memory.

Once upon a long time to come, in a ruined library - only its basement left - Five had read about a fish. 

He remembers little of the book itself. Old. Torn up. Dust jacket then a coat of grime. Part of a ragtag second-hand pile that had fared better than the snazzy hardcovers shelved above ground. Five, knowing a refugee camp when he saw one, had propped Dolores against a stack and huddled next to her. 

And then, because it was what Ben would have done, he’d opened a book.

 _Opened? More like allowed it to fall apart in your hands_.

Ah, Dolores’s sunfreckled voice: a dear intruder. He smiles; looks fondly to where she’s sticking her chin up, none the worse for her night out. Still, better safe than sorry, so he sets a glass of Irish coffee (their favorite) near her fingertips. 

“If you like. But the thing is…”

A knock at the door. Five sighs through his nostrils.

“If it’s you, Klaus, my threat holds good!”

But it’s not Klaus. It’s too soft a knock for Klaus, ergo it has to be Luther - post-binge, pre-nuptial, and fully self-conscious. “Oh, for - come in, I bet they can hear your feet shuffling from across the Hudson River!”

Luther comes in self-consciously.

“Hey,” he says. Then turns and gives Dolores a tentative half-wave. Five watches, unable and perhaps unwilling to quench the jolt of warmth inspired by this gesture. All of his siblings tolerate Dolores, but Luther alone acknowledges her as Five’s better half. Diego sees her as his _saner_ half. Vanya gave him a TED talk on transitional objects, no, really, Five, I used to kiss my violin good-night, then, when answered with a fixed stare, gave up. Allison _tried to hang a velvet béret on her_. Klaus… yeah. Least said, as they say.

“What do you want?” 

If Luther has one virtue, it is to take Five at his word. Instead of looking fifty shades of scowl, as Diego would, Luther smiles and puts a little box in Five’s hand.

Before he opens it, Five switches on his bedside lamp. It adds its own gold to the view: the two rings nestled one within the other’s circle, the broader O cradling its mate gently, protectively. Five thinks back to a girl of thirteen sobbing from the shock and pain of a roundel tattooed on her skin. 

He nods tightly at Luther’s unspoken request. “At least you can trust I won’t barter them for a gin rickey.”

“Klaus is, uh, very penitent,” Luther says, his gaze flickering to Dolores. Who, bless her, keeps her nose turned up. “But that’s not why I want you to have them. Well, until tomorrow. I mean, it’s up to you, of course, but this - my - tomorrow - it’s all down to you. I mean.”

“Luther. Pre-wedding nerves are one thing, but you’re babbling.”

“No, really,” Luther insists. “You telling me I was still young and entitled to a life of my own… that I could still break away from the solitude... it left a mark. So, yeah. I’d be honoured if you'd, uh. Agree to be my best man. As ever.”

“... Thank you, Luther.”

_Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?_

“Is that for me, or him?” he asks, mildly, once Luther’s retreating back is out of sight. Dolores only laughs, and after a while he joins her, the gold a steady gleam in his hand.

_Now where were we?_

“That book. Something about a grunting fish. The grunts produce a neuronal signal, which, monitored by the hindbrain at a steady frequency…”

Knock, knock.

“I’m _busy_! And I don’t care that it’s faster when I do it, it’s your turn to take out the trash, Diego!”

“I come bearing gifts, actually. Well, one gift. From Agnes.”

“Hazel,” Five mutters, half for himself. Pat on cue, Hazel squeezes his icebox shoulders past his door and beams down into the room. He is carrying a brown paper bag in one hand and, muffled in his other palm, a small jeweller’s box.

Well, color Five unsurprised.

“Let me guess. I made sure none of my sibligns would off you, and you now intend to repay me with gold. That’s it?”

“Temporarily,” Hazel says. “Mind if I sit?”

“Mind if you bow to the lady first?”

“Oh,” Hazel says, but, to his credit, bows to Dolores. “My apologies.”

With sober, meticulous gestures - the Hazel known for trimming his beard every third day, hail, rain or massacre - he extends both hands. Five takes the small box first. Opens it out of sheer curiosity. Gold, yes, round, yes, plain, no. There’s a chiseled wreath of tiny birds and even tinier letters on each golden loop, ratcheting up Five’s curiosity a notch or two. Names: superfluous, the Handler once told him. "Mr. Five" was good enough for an executioner. But if the ring bears Hazel’s real, secret name…

Five closes the box very quietly and slips it into his other jacket pocket.

 _It_ would _be a little hypocritical, right? Developing a sudden interest in civil names?_

A one-dimpled smile, now that Hazel has left. “You might say that.”

_And you might end your story._

“What story?”

_The story in the book, the book in the night, the night you and I met._

“Technically, we’d met five hours earlier at Gimbels’. But you’re right.”

The fish grunts, or sings (if you're a poet like Luther) or emits widening circles of ultrasounds (if you care for exactness like Five). At some point, a female fish picks up his silent plea and swims through the dark to him, while he waits, his call inaudible to all but her.

“A fishy story, but true. Or so you told me that night.”

_Aren’t you going to open Agnes’s gift?_

“In fact, it was the first thing you said to me.”

_And what did you say?_

The brown paper bag contains a single donut. Perfectly round - gleaming - its flawless caramel glaze hogging the lamplight. The donut smells of freshly baked choux, with a strong, earthy hint of coffee and walnut. And it feels warm to Five's touch.

Five thinks of a dark and desperate night, of his then-young cheeks running wet while she told him he was not alone and yesterday was almost over. He raises the pastry in her direction, and they look at each other over the golden ring, shrewd and strong in their bond.


	6. Six Geese A-Laying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus and Ben on babysitting duty.

”Mr. and Mrs. Hargreeves, everyone. Now breaking the Guinness record for the shortest honeymoon!”

“What can I say? In the words of Judy Garland, there’s no place like home.” And Allison takes Luther’s arm to steer him - under a cloud of white rice masterfully levitated by Vanya - past the Academy gate. 

Mr and Mrs _Heart-no-longer-grieves_ (Klaus) did try to hide their destination, but Klaus knew better than to keep Luther sober on his stag do. Home is all very well, now they’ve remade the house in their image (read: a warm bazaar), but there’s no time like the past - meaning, 1965. Five’s wedding gift to Alison: four hours of complete and utter anonymity. Allison and Five’s gift to Luther: the Opening Day of Astroland, the celebrated “space age” theme park in Brooklyn.

It seemed a bit unfair to keep Claire from the fun. In fact, Luther was all for bringing a round-cheeked chaperone. But an opening day is all hectic brightness, and Allison would never abandon herself to a mad spin or ten with Luther if she spent it shepherding the chaperone. So Ben volunteered himself instead. Which entailed grounding Klaus, so Ben could enter the plane of solidness, a requisite for successful babysitting. Stone, meet your birds. 

“Who’s Judy Garland?” asks Claire, as they retrace their steps to the main hall.

“Another _Wunderkind_ ,” says Klaus. “As we once were.”

“Child star,” Ben translates for Claire. He realizes his mistake instantly, as Claire’s eyes - round, pure butterscotch - become rounder at his words. 

“Oh, can I see the you-things? Please, Uncle Ben? And Uncle Klaus? Beautiful please?”

How can you resist _Beautiful please_? Or a child’s offer to pluck the thorns off your past and make it bloom as an occasion of good, harmless fun? An hour later finds them in Klaus’s old room, sitting down to a tea-party of mugs and plates decorated with the Umbrella kids. It should be creepy, Ben thinks, to eat cake off your own effigy, but Klaus doesn’t care a bit. In fact, Klaus is taking more goodies out of improbable caches. There’s a “Five O’Clock” alarm clock. An Allison doll that squeaks out “I heard a rumor you’re my best friend!”. And - wait for it! - a Ben-shaped pasta machine, with the noodles of pasta allegedly coming out of his abdomen.

“Okay, that one’s tacky,” Claire says generously.

Klaus’s hand flies to his heart, as he puts on his Reginald puppet voice. “Tacky? My _pièce de collection_? Young lady, I would have you know this is a Philip Starck limited edition!”

And did it sell, Ben thinks wrily. Did _they_ sell, the six of them, turned into dolls and pens and satchels and comics and afterschool specials - scrubbed to a shine, reciting Sir’s lines a dozen a dime. How much did the old man cash in on them, all goods considered? Pogo never said, and Pogo saw to the merch - carting them, Sir’s golden geese, from one photo shoot to the next, only pausing to reset Luther’s arm first or wipe the blood from Ben’s face and neck.

But here is Klaus waddling Ben the Pasta Maker towards Claire, and there is Claire giggling until her face is all smiles and hiccups. “Help me, Kluesy-Wan Klausobi!” Klaus intones dramatically. “You’re my only hope!”

 _Honk, honk_ , Ben directs silently - sardonically - to Limbo, the eldritch perking an eye open. Then he lies firmly down on his stomach, grabs the Klaus figure, and makes it levitate over the cake. Time to rewrite Theirstory, with a little help from a child.


	7. Seven Swans A-Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siblings go ice-skating.

It’s one of those winters when the sky lights up first, blue and radiant, while the ice holds its ground. Thus, the City Lake is still frozen when the Hargreeveses decide to pay it a visit. That is, Klaus does. Ever since Luther’s stag do, which Klaus says has revived his artistic gusto, he’s been pondering on a new act entitled “Ice Queen” - a thing of grace and beauty which involves Klaus, skating, and a diaphanous low-cut robe that Klaus says is a Disney tribute. The Hargreeveses, a Disney-deprived tribe if there was one, eye it doubtfully.

“No way,” says Diego, the group loudspeaker. “You wear that shit outside, I’m disowning you.”

Klaus sighs. “Oh, Di-ego. So conservative.”

“Let me rephrase. You wear that shit outside before Midsommer, I’m disowning you. I’m done watching you shiver to death. Get your act together, bro. Fucking pun intended.”

“Guys. Guys!” And Vanya, still unused to butting in mid-family banter, raises her hand. “I might have a solution.”

“Blowing up the lake is right out,” Klaus warns her. “I need the practice. Last time I tried, we were twelve and I wore skates and Allison’s boa, which, if you recall, not the best combo.”

“I recall,” Diego says sombrely. “You’re lucky _I_ have a quick mind and a quicker knife.” 

“But if I raise enough energy particles,” Vanya segues,” then I could use them to float Klaus _and_ build a microclimatic bubble to keep him warm.”

“And melt the lake for good measure. Yeah, problem totally solved.”

“Not if she provides for thermal insulation when casting the bubble.” Five, suddenly alert to the conversation, turns to Luther, whose eye has perked up at the physics bait. Allison shakes her head; gives her husband’s arm a fond pat. _Thermos_ , her own mind provides. _Blankets_. _Tow ropes, plural_. It’s not that Allison does not trust her siblings, but, as Dad used to bleat, _prepare for the worst, children, before you settle for the best._

They take over the lake with zest, glühwein and a good deal of bluster. Klaus, kicking and fussing, has let himself be coaxed into leggings and a beanie before they left. Five, to everyone’s surprise, is in knickerbockers. He looks like a younger Tintin, but since his skates, like all self-respecting skates, sport sharpened blades, the family has not wished to comment. Luther sticks to the edge. Diego whirls centerstage - pointedly. Klaus says Ben is watching the thermos, which everyone knows is a lie, but Ben doesn’t mind: being a ghost means that he can pirouette among them without spooking the beginners or shaming the pros.

And then Vanya, little Vanya, launches upon the surface and glides right up to the core, enveloped in a ring of white light. She is powered up, but she is smiling. Allison, still lacing her skates, stares at her sister open-mouthed. Vanya giggles, a clear young sound; when Klaus frames his hands around his mouth and whoops back, Vanya sends an arrow of light in his direction. The light picks him up and floats him across the ice, surrounded with radiance. Klaus looks a little panicked, but then he opens his eyes, bursts into a smile, and yells “Queen of the world!".

“Cheater!” Diego calls back, but he too is smiling across his scowl.

“I can multitask”, Vanya laughs, and a second arrow dances its way to Diego, wrapping itself gently around him. A third tiptoes to Luther, stopping as if to ask his permission. Luther says something inaudible, and, a second later, is carried to the heart of the dance - a miraculous lightweight. All three brothers sustained and sped on their moves while Vanya, the eye of her peaceful vortex, hovers above the ice. 

Like swans, Allison thinks. I should take a picture for Agnes. But Vanya is looking at her, her sweet radiant face asking to bestow; and Allison thinks, _what the hell_. She ties the last knot and stands up, and then she ventures on the ice, aware of the water under the bridge, the dark unquiet undertow, but confident that Vanya can keep herself and them above it. She holds her arms out to her sister and lets the white light come to her; lets herself be moved into their ballet, laughing as an invisible hand which she knows for Ben’s ruffles her hair. 

“Who knew,” Five’s voice says next to her. His cheeks are pink from the wind, as he catches her hand and lets himself be sped along with unFivelike docility. “Who knew she was the key to our harmonics, all along.”

Allison smiles, holds his hand, and kicks the ice to swing them into the dance.


	8. Eight Maids A-Milking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's drag show night, baby! And Klaus can count on his family to see him through hail, rain and sequins.

Only once before has Klaus Hargreeves performed to a packed room - and that was after he OD’d on his last teenage mission at the City Catacombs (Dad sure knew how to pick’em) for which he’d prepped up to the best, i. e. worst, of his capacity. Tonight his prepping is limited to a tube of Smarties. While Klaus is well past the age when he’ll buy Diego’s read-it-in-Dad’s-book-no- _really_ secret that the blue Smarties make you smarter, he likes to sugarcoat his tongue. It helps with the stage fright, he tells Diego, who doesn’t buy it a second but slips the candies into Klaus’s soirée purse all the same.

Klaus and purse have long disappeared behind the stage curtain at The Shady Dame when the rest of the Hargreeves file into the cabaret. It’s their first night out since the Rave That Was: a giant step for Luther, who thought he’d stand in the back and let the others enjoy their front row seats. Instead, he finds himself blinking at the small round tables booked for them by Klaus, with enough room for Luther to let his legs and shoulders enjoy a good time. 

“Thanks, Ben,” he mouths to his left, and smiles when a voice at his right whispers, “You got it, Space”. 

“Wow,” Vanya says in slow and reverent tones to her Bloody Mary. Not her first - Vanya has attended a few premieres. Not even her first tonight. “This is soooooooo red.”

“Like Klaus’s dress,” Allison quips as the stage bursts into smiles and colors, and the eight stars of the night take their preening lap, introduced by a beaming MC. The leader is Tequila Mockingbird, whose alias earns her Ben’s enthusiastic if inaudible whistling. (Ben is a Ghost of Letters.) 

“Dame Faye Boulous… Miss Cleo Patrix… Lady Raye Diante… Amanduh Lear… Her Highness Jackie Oooh… Euphoria Bliss… and a new gorgeous performer, Kleavagess Hurr!”

Allison chokes - audibly - on her drink. Five nurses his. When confronted with six emphatic gazes, he shrugs and says, “What? I _was_ asked for an algorithm providing anagrams.”

Klaus, oblivious to the family debate over his chosen alias, sashays upstage in enough sequins to flatten a disco ball. Far away, Dolores must be approving. Then he trips on his platform heels, causing at least three relatives to lunge forward on a jolt of deja vu - before he tips them a mascara-ed wink and prances back to his place in the line.

There is panto, there is dancing, there is lip-synching, all of it delivered with more zing and gusto than the family has ever witnessed in a Klaus-related event. It’s not that Klaus lacks the vim, Diego thinks to himself, watching his brother blow Luther a kiss before launching into the big guy’s favorite 80es song. It’s that Klaus never kept up the zing past, well, a zinger or two. And those were not always kind; and never enough to shield the zingerer from bouts of melancholy, so that their twirling Klaus became a quiet horizontal Klaus, lying in bed with his high (and knitting), or lying in a bath with his high (and earphones). But now? Now Klaus is surrounded with friends, at home and at work; Klaus is donating the vim to them, upright, swaying his hips and milking his success with the best of them.

_Back in the groove now… I’m so glad we’re back together..._

Two verses in, the audience door slams open to usher in a bunch of guys. They’re boisterous. Too loud to mean good, Diego thinks. He opens his mouth - but already Luther is standing up, is spreading his shoulders to their full span. The jeers crash to a stop.

_Every tear that I cry, every day that went by… will be no more._

Hell yeah, thinks Diego, and gives his hands licence to clap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hazel and Agnes will make their comeback, promise.)


	9. Nine Ladies Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hargreeves try their hand at a sleepover; Diego tries his hand - and knife - at a new target.

The pajama party is Klaus's idea, before he goes semantically back on his word and shows up in a lace-trimmed nightie that was obviously one of Mom's, sparking a tiff with Diego. Luther proffers a truce. Five proffers a critique of Luther, calibrated just so he can distract the family gaze and make away with the marshmallow fluff. Ben sits there wheee-ing them on.

"I have a rumor and I will use it," Allison cautions over the din. She bites her lip. "... up to a point."

Five snorts. "Long way to go, young Padawan."

"Really? Let me take a shortcut, then. I heard a rumor your cup was filled with Bovrite."

Five spits out his fluffy sip. "Shit, Allison!"

"I heard a rumor the lights dimmed out. I heard a rumor Klaus made his secret opinion on Diego's outfit known to Diego."

"Drop the knives, bring on the Zorro hat," Klaus says eagerly. "You'll look even hotter." A beat. "Did I say that aloud?"

Diego does not drop the knife, but he lowers it.

"Vanya, drop Luther's arm. Luther, drop Diego. Klaus, do _not_ drop the nightie. There." And Allison yawns.

"Allison, drop the act," Ben says somewhat saucily in her back. She dares not lean back into him - Klaus has reached the point when he can manifest a perma-audible Ben, but a tangible Ben is still in the works. She is surprised when two blue arms encircle her, coaxing her against a chest that may be cold, but feels as reliable as it did when alive.

"Oh," said Vanya. She tugs at Luther's arm, bringing them to where Allison and Ben are sitting by the fire. The fireplace had been Dad's monopoly, fuel to his synapses; now it is their den, the more luxurious rugs and afghans piled high before it for their sleepover. "Can we...?"

"Make room! Make room!" And Klaus flops down on their other side. "I want my Benlight too."

"At least we'll know what to do if the City fights the will," Five said drily. "Patent Ben and lease him out as renewable energy." But he hasn't blinked away, and now he lowers himself slowly down - time and again, an old man's cast lingers over Five's moves like a phantom wound, whenever Five eases back into the family circle. The family knows better than to mention it.

Diego comes last, having made a detour by Dad’s desk, and drops smoothly onto his hams. (Either do thing by the book - textbook - Boy’s Own Book of Heroes - or don’t do the thing: Diego’s motto. Even when in pajamas.)

“Is that one of Dad’s? I thought we’d burnt them all.”

“Only a draft one.” And Diego holds up the large notebook for Five's inspection. The writing is indeed Sir’s customary cursive, mirroring his once impatient mind. Words jotted across the page, half-baked geometry designs, eerie ill omens. The centerfold pages are still uncut and Diego takes them out; smoothes them flat onto the floor, then folds them again into smaller pleats.

“What are you -”

“Shush,” Diego tells a curious Klaus. He picks the knife again - the arsenal baby, no bigger than his thumb - and gets to work. By now he has his family’s entire attention, for better or worse. But his blade is still pliant under Diego's will; cuts through the pleats like butter, letting a round shape emerge at their top. The knife hovers delicately; cuts two straight lines on each side of the circle, then one wide triangle at the bottom…

“Oh my god,” says Allison. “Are you… making paper dolls? Claire has been _begging_ me for a tutorial. They always come out as confetti with me.”

“Thought I’d make some for Agnes,” Diego mutters, not looking at her.

“I wish I could,” Luther says mournfully. “But with my fingers being what they are…”

“I could show you,” Diego offers, half in bravado. But Luther only says, “Really? You would? Thanks, man” and Diego relaxes into his task. Snip, snip, goes the knife - now for a child’s pleasure. When Diego puts it back and unfolds the pages, nine dainty figures are holding hands as in a farandole. The dance has tamed Sir’s inky sigils - now embroidery on a lady’s skirt, half translucent in the fireglow. Diego looks at them and releases an inaudible breath.

“Oh, can I color them tomorrow? _Bitte schön?_ My therapist says I’m a natural at crayons.”

Vanya giggles; and the glow, unexpectedly, picks up Five’s mouth corner. They talk a little more, and when they hush, one by one, their breaths keep up a conversation. Sleep becomes; peace becomes. And, as they burrow deeper into each other's rest, they become home.


	10. Ten Gentlemen A-Leaping

Very, very cautiously, Luther hugs Agnes & sweet bundle. It's hardly his first visit, but he still refuses to take any chance with the Rofas' tiny baby daughter.

However, Agnes's concern is with his nose and cheeks, not his biceps.

"Klaus did it," Luther says upon intercepting her glance at the gaudy plasters. The glance goes wide-eyed. Luther corrects course. "The first aid, not the bruises. That was nothing."

"That," Hazel edits, "was an iron glove."

"Elaborate." (Agnes, firmly.)

"Medium size." (Luther, demurely.)

"But filled with cast iron." (Hazel, making his point clear.) "Dunno why they thought this might work. What was it, the day we tackled The Atomizer? Stone boomerang?"

"Stone boomerang," Luther confirms around a mouthful. It's beefaroni, which he loves, and it's Agnes's beefaroni, which equates ambrosia to Luther’s taste buds.

"Yup. Nearly forced us to the mat - nearly, but not quite."

"Ha, no. Beefaroni's great, Agnes."

"Next thing we knew, his cronies had a go. All ten of them."

“Jumped us from the balustrade,” Luther reminisces dreamily.

“Jumped is the word. See, the Atomizer had rigged them up with trampoline shoes. Boing, boing, these babies shot us dead. Or tried to.”

“Yeah, but he’d overshot the mark. They never hit gravity long enough to hit  _ us _ .” 

"So they started throwing things at us next.”

"Never once accounting for the effect of velocity on momentum. You’d think villains knew the basics of physics.”

“Took a leap of faith, I guess.”

Luther begins to laugh. “One of them waved a  _ cat _ at me. Remember?"

"That's small-change villains for you. Connoisseurs go for a ferret - the Handler had one, nasty little thing. Leapt at your throat at her given word. She called it Fivet."

"You boys have one year," Agnes interjects, pointing at the crib. "And then I expect a proper G-rated version of how the naughty teddy bear waved his paw at Godpapa Luther."

"Sorry, dear. But you know us. Thickheaded boys, taking to blows like ducks to water. Or water to the ducks? Speaking of, Luther, we're taking the littl'un to see the lake tomorrow. Wanna come? It's beautiful at this time of year, and that's when the mallards are expected back from Arkansas."

"I'd love to," Luther says, earnestly. "Only, Diego and I are infiltrating the non-vetted nuclear power plant tomorrow. To, you know. De-power it. Actually, Agnes, I have a favour to ask."

"Oh, we can postpone to Monday. The mallards may be gone, but the red-billed -"

"No, actually..." Luther pauses long enough to help himself to another helping. After thirty years of Mom's nice but exclusively 1950s cuisine, finding a fellow sufferer in Hazel had been a boost to their bonding. "Erm. I need to train."

"Oh dear," she sighs, but smiles across the sigh. "Well, the spare extruder is all yours. And your brother has sent me extra plasters."

[Klaus's choice of plasters for Luther [here](https://int.hansaplast.com/products/wound-care/coloured-plaster).]


	11. Eleven Pipers Piping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven pipers piping: a gingerbread Masterclass with chefs Grace and Agnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I can never remember if Grace exists or doesn't exist in this 'verse. Whatever. I'm bringing her back because there's no self-respecting Hargreeves home without a Mom.)

“Attention, please.” And Agnes raises her whip, but only so she can display its trail of smooth white festoons. Further along the kitchen table, Hargreeveses in various degrees of stickiness turn to her. “Royal icing needs a little time to settle. Right, Grace?”

“Six hours and twenty-eight minutes, factoring in the atmospheric warmth emanating from eleven people.” Grace beams down under her chic chef’s toque. It looks more like a frosted cupcake than the regular brioche shape, but sits jauntily on her blond curls. Agnes has a matching pink numbe

“So one of you holds the gingerbread walls together, while the other tilts the piping bag  _ just _ so and glues... the walls…. together. Like… yes! Good job, Team Allies!”

Allison and Vanya grin up. Vanya’s fingers, a dab hand at curling or stretching across the soundboard, prop up the house for Allison’s finishing touch. When she lets go of it, the house stands. Luther lifts his hands and claps softly. If Vanya’s eyes are a touch misty, or his, neither will mention it.

“Number Naught has no idea what he’s missing,” Klaus proclaims instead, his own fingertips adorned with candied cherries, all ten of them. He pops them into his mouth, an elongated five-year-old on a sugar Ferris wheel.

“Number Naught? Christ on a popsicle stick, there’s another of you?”

“Our dad,” Luther enlightens Hazel. “According to Klaus. Better known to the great public as the Monocle.”

“Moron-cle, more like. Mom! Agnes! Ben! Do you like my curlicues?”

“Lo and behold, a rhetorical question.”

“Pipe down and pipe up, Benjy-boy.”

“That’s a contradiction in terms!”

“Klaus, dear.” (Agnes, a pink-crested diplomat.) “Your curlicues look perfect.”

“ _ Merci _ you,” Klaus says nonchalantly, patting his hair with a pink-frosted hand. “At least my house looks like a house. Team Clive’s looks like a vertically challenged cabana.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Five tells Claire. “He’s jealous because we called dibs on the Eiffel Tower.”

The two of them have indeed broken the fourth wall quite literally, coating it with nutella before they shared it between them and rigged the other three into a V-shaped structure. That is, Five did. Claire experimented with gusto and pink icing.

“Good luck with tonight’s beddy-byes,” Diego mutters, sitting next to Allison. His “house” consists in for impeccably glued walls and a marzipan figure standing guard at its door. Luther suspects the figure is Diego in person. It’s plastered all over with ominous-looking silver dragees.

“And Luther’s looks like Apollo 11!”

“That’s because it’s Apollo 11,” Luther says, patiently. He tilts his gingerbread model gingerly, this way and that, so that Hazel can glue the last joints expertly. Too expertly? Slowly, Luther’s brain freezes, icing-wise. It’s been thirty-odd years since the  _ Challenger _ disaster, but...

“Nope,” Hazel says, quickly, reading his mind. “That one was truly an accident. Pinkie swear.”

They pause to link their pinkies over the bowl of M&M’s. Even Klaus hushes until they’re done.

“Good job, everyone!” Agnes chirps next, perching herself on Hazel’s knee. Team Clive is unapologetically munching on Monsieur Eiffel’s magnum opus; Klaus is passed out over the M&M’s bowl; Diego is gifting Mom with his marzipan lookalike. As far as Luther’s eye can see, the whole family is riding out a zest-and-jollity high.

Eh. Good for them.

“Can I see? Oh, a space rocket, now that’s uplifting! Well done, Team… what did you boys settle for?"

“Brand New Team,” Hazel tells his wife.

Luther keeps still, but watches as Agnes pipes one last puff of white with a twist of her wrist. The puff turns into a little white bird, sitting atop the... no, no longer a shuttle. Noah’s Ark, filled with live and laughing survivors and steered by a dove. As rewritings go, Luther couldn’t wish for a better one.


End file.
